The Funeral Singer
by WolfKael
Summary: Samantha Harwood, formerly Samantha Manson, poisons her abusive husband, convinced that no one will ever know. Then, at his wake, she hears a song describing her situation; who is this "Phantom" they've hired as the Funeral Singer, and how does he know her secret! Steampunk AU fic. Not part of J.O.S. continuum. Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom
1. Samantha Harwood

**A/N: Second fic, but not connected to the J.O.S. continuum. No, this is an AU thing I have to write…right now. Not sure how long it'll be, (if it'll go more than one chapter) or if it'll update regularly, but…anyway, read/review/fav/follow my AU DP fic: "The Funeral Singer," inspired by the music video of Panic! At the Disco's "The Ballad of Mona Lisa" I do not own Danny Phantom or "The Ballad of Mona Lisa." The lyrics of Phantom's song written in here are mine. That's all. Also: this chapter used to be shorter. I've added on a part.**

Chapter #1: Samantha Harwood

An imperceptible twitch of violet lips, which she quickly hides behind a black handkerchief; Samantha "Sam" Harwood crumples into her mother's arms, feigned tears falling from her lavender eyes.

"There, there," the older woman soothes, stroking her sobbing daughter's back, "It'll be okay."

She smiles into her mother's corseted bodice, restraining a laugh. Her eyes swivel over to the still form on the bed. A blond-haired man in his thirties lays motionless on white sheets. A dove-gray top hat with a black ribbon rests on the bedside table, never to be worn by its purchaser more than once.

"It's so unfortunate," the doctor sighs, "To leave behind such a lovely widow."

Sam straightens, brushing away her tears, "Please excuse me. My husband would not want me to behave in such an…unseemly manner," she brushes dust from her long, purple dress with black leather gloves, "Please forget you saw anything."

"Of course, My Lady," the corpulent man replies, scratching at his gray mustache.

"How did he…? If I may ask," Pamela asks, resting a reassuring hand on her daughter's shoulder.

"Some form of poison, I presume. Well…the young Baron Harwood had many enemies," he raises an eyebrow; "You haven't suffered anything unusual, have you, Lady Harwood?"

Sam shakes her head, "No…he fell after…" she covers her mouth again with her handkerchief, "after he finished his scotch."

"Does he drink every night?"

"Yes. Everyone in the manor knows of it," she dabs at her eyes.

"…I see," he huffs, "Well then, perhaps you should stay with your parents tonight. Keep an eye on her just as a precaution. I…I'll call the undertaker."

"Thank you," Sam whispers from behind her kerchief, hoping she looks absolutely devastated as her mother escorts her away from the room.

Six months ago, she had become Mrs. Aaron Harwood; his family owns the local railroad, making the young Baron a good match for the only daughter of the elite Manson estate. She hadn't been happy about her impending marriage, but she accepted it; such was the fate of wealthy women. It was purely political; to be honest, they'd met a few times and he wasn't _awful_.

It shows that you cannot judge a man you've only talked to for less than an hour.

She'd learned very quickly that Baron Harwood was not a good man; not the gentleman he pretended to be. He was often drunk; violently so. She would plead, hide, fight back; but she still saw the purple stains across her skin in the mirror. She knew she had to save herself from the monster she'd been sold to. No one would ever learn she'd been poisoning the monster little by little with arsenic. She'd made him dependent on it; a necessity for his survival. Then she'd stopped. Over the past few days, he'd suffered from withdrawals that ultimately killed him.

Good riddance.

-BREAK-

Four days later, she stops the final clock of the manor and turns the final mirror towards the wall. Her face is solemn; truthfully, she wishes hadn't had to kill him. The guests all offer their condolences before viewing the body in the parlor to say their goodbyes. In the main hall, chatting and raucous laughter can be heard above music.

_Hidden behind a gentleman's smile,_

_A vile creature of cardinal sin,_

_Would never notice the tipping vial,_

_A wounded bride's desperate poison._

She halts in her tracks, suddenly feeling sick.

"Isn't that…?" a man questions his companion.

"The funeral singer?"

"Doesn't he go by some tasteless name?" he huffs.

"He's quite popular, you know. They say his songs always fit the deceased," his wife assures, "…Phantom, that's it!"

She turns to face the singer, his bright green eyes burning into hers. His white hair contrasts with his pitch-black suit and top hat.

_Oh, who could ever blame her?_

_Forced to wed a man so cruel?_

_A fair maiden who once pure,_

_Now made a blood-stained jewel._

She takes a step back, wondering briefly if any of the other guests have noticed; but none turn her way. Phantom, though, smiles wickedly as he sings, his eyes locked onto hers.

_He knows,_ fear pounds in her chest, _he _knows.

"Samantha, are you alright?" her mother asks, appearing behind her, "You look pale."

"Yes, I just…I believe I need some time to sit down. Please excuse me," she hurries up the stairs, secluding herself in her dark bedroom. Assured she's alone, she allows herself to succumb to the tremors. The music floats up from below.

_Even now the demon loudly calls,_

_Demanding her crimson blood be spilt,_

_Though her pain be written on the walls,_

_Amongst these broken bottles of guilt._

_Oh, who could ever blame her?_

_Sold as though a china doll?_

_These words I can deem as sure,_

_He earned his destructive fall._

-BREAK-

"So…you're not going to turn her in?"

"With what proof, Tuck?"

"True…"

"I don't want to anyway; the man was a real piece of work and he got what he deserved!" Phantom leans against the stonework, removing his top hat and brushing a hand through his silver hair. Here in the darkness, one can see the pale, ghostly glow that surrounds him.

"You're only saying that because she was hot," the darker man snorts.

"She was," he grins, but sobers suddenly, "But that's not why. You can't see it, Tuck. The miasma," he shudders, "it coated that place like a blanket."

"Almost like the tobacco smoke?"

"Yeah," he snorts, "Another reason it was time for me to leave. I've got lungs to protect!"

"You don't even have to _breathe_ like this," Tucker retorts, motioning to his entire body, "…you most definitely terrified her."

"Yeah, I did," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You touch it?"

"What?!"

"The miasma," he frowns.

"Not any more than I had too," he shakes his head; "…did you know he'd go after her with the bottle? Oh, and he'd…" he covers his mouth, looking ill, "…He deserves to wander the Infinite Realms for eternity."

"He'll come back for her."

"Definitely."

"Then what?"

"Let's think about that when the time comes, hm?"

"…what do you think will happen to her in the meantime?"

"No idea, Tuck. None at all," he pulls his hat on once again, keeping the brim low as they stride into the night, along deserted streets.


	2. Valerie Grey

**A/N: Well, here's Ch. 2! I like the concepts for this story, but I'm not sure on my writing. :P If you want something written better, I would suggest Journey of Secrets, if you aren't already reading it. This is just…my vent story. I had an idea itching at my head, and had to get it out. Remember to read/review/fav/follow! As my Journey of Secrets followers can attest, regular reviews keep me motivated to update!**

**Also: The poem is "Spirits of The Dead" by Edgar Allen Poe**

Chapter #2: Valerie Grey

She wakes up on the floor, curled against the wall. The music has stopped, and pale morning light filters through the windows. Birds twitter outside as she sits up with a groan, cracking her back.

"Samantha?" her mother calls from the hallway.

"I'm getting changed, Mother!" she returns, hurriedly rushing for a different dress, laid on her bed. She fumbles with the buckles as she recalls the burning green eyes of the funeral singer. Despite his white hair, he'd looked to be close to her age; possibly not even a year older than her twenty.

_Phantom…_her knuckles turn white, knotting into the fabric. He'd been challenging her; _daring_ her to contradict him. But he hadn't turned her in; thinking on the lyrics, he didn't intend to.

"How did you know?" she mutters, slipping into her new dress and looking towards her mirror, which remains covered by her wedding veil. She whisks the fabric away with a hand and gazes at herself in the polished surface.

Her hair is dark, curled and pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. She glances over her figure, ensuring that no bruises can be seen – of course they can't – and pulls the pins from her hair, allowing it to fall to her shoulders. She brushes her violet-tipped fingernails through it before giving up and reaching for her brush.

_It's over,_ she assures herself, _it's over, Sam._

Two hours later, she sits at a café in the northern end of town, waiting for a friend of the family, Valerie Grey, to join her. She's been friends with Valerie for years, but since getting married, she'd been kept at the manor like a pet parrot.

"Sam!" Valerie shouts, bustling over in a pale yellow gown with darker, orange accents. Sam stands, and the two women hug briefly before taking their places at the table once again.

"It's so good to see you, Val," she smiles, "Really, _really_ good."

"I know! It's not polite to speak ill of the dead, but I can't understand why that idiot wouldn't let you come visit!"

"Well, he was just…"

"Sam, cut the drivel. You hated his guts!" she snorts, and leans forward, "Did _you_ kill him?"

"What would make you ask that?!" she hisses back, glancing around nervously.

"Because unlike everyone else, I actually _know_ you; I'm not going to tell. He probably deserved it."

"He did," she snips before she can catch herself. Her hand snaps over her mouth, earning a satisfied smirk from Valerie.

"What did he do?"

"…shall we head back to your mansion for some privacy?" she asks quietly, knowing there's no stopping her. She'll press until she gets what she wants; that's the Grey way.

She looks worried as she nods, and summons her carriage from across the street.

"Mind giving me an idea?" she asks once they seat themselves on the plush seats inside and the carriage jerks to life.

"He was drunk…a violent one," Sam takes a deep breath, "I just…I couldn't take it anymore. I had to kill him before he killed me."

"How'd you do it?"

"Arsenic; not the usual way," she clarifies, leaning into her hands, "Made him dependent on it and then stopped; he went through withdrawals for two days before giving up the ghost."

"Ouch," she wrinkles her nose, "earned it, though. I mean, if _you_ can't even _talk_ about what he did…" tears bud at her eyes, "Oh, _Sam_, I'm sorry you suffered so much!"

"It's okay, now, it's over," she assures.

"So," Valerie smirks, "Convince everyone at the wake you were the grieving widow?"

"Yeah…" she replies, "Except…"

"Except who?!"

"What do you know about the funeral singer who calls himself 'Phantom'?"

"Phantom…? He's pretty popular; showed up a few years ago before vanishing until recently. He sang for my uncle's wake. He was cute," she recalls with a grin, "deep voice that almost seems to echo. It was weird; he sang about things I didn't even know happened. Auntie told me they were all true though, and she hadn't told him."

"So…he just…knows?"

"Rumors say that he can see the spirits of the dead," she whispers, "others say _he's_ one of them."

"Seriously, Val, _ghosts?"_

"I'm just telling you the rumors," she raises her hands, "What did he sing?"

"About a cruel man who earned his wife's hatred and wanted revenge for his death," she blurts, "But…the chorus asked who could blame her for doing what she did. I…I don't think he plans to turn me in, Val."

"Then drop it," she dismisses, "He's not going to cause problems. The ghost of your murdered husband, on the other hand…"

"Ghosts don't exist, Val!"

"You should hope so, girl. Keep hoping."

-BREAK-

_"__Thy soul shall find itself alone_

_'__Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;_

_Not one, of all the crowd, to pry,_

_Into thine hour of secrecy._

_Be silent in that solitude,_

_Which is not loneliness–for then_

_The spirits of the dead, who stood_

_In life before thee, are again_

_In death around thee, and their will_

_Shall overshadow thee; be still."_

"Danny?" Tucker glances around the clearing, his eyes scanning the trees for any sign of his friend.

_"__The night, though clear, shall frown,  
And the stars shall not look down  
From their high thrones in the Heaven  
With light like hope to mortals given,  
But their red orbs, without beam,  
To thy weariness shall seem  
As a burning and a fever  
Which would cling to thee for ever."_

"Listen, Danny, are you just going to sit around reciting Poe all day, or are we going to get some work done?"

_"Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,  
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;  
From thy spirit shall they pass  
No more, like dew-drop from the grass."_

The dark form slips from the branches with a grin. His blue eyes spark mischievously behind strands of onyx hair.

_"The breeze, the breath of God, is still,  
And the mist upon the hill  
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,  
Is a symbol and a token.  
How it hangs upon the trees,  
A mystery of mysteries!"_

"The only mystery is how we're both still single," Tucker smirks, "I mean, I am the epitome of attractiveness! How can I _not_ have a girl!"

"Maybe because you advertise yourself too much," Danny retorts, "And we're broke. That doesn't help."

"Hey, we made good money last night!"

"Yeah, but it's not exactly a _steady_ income, Tuck," he claps his friend's shoulder, "People _die_ before we get decent work."

"Maybe if you started doing weddings…"

"_No_," he frowns, "Phantom sings at _funerals_, and _only_ funerals."

"Fine," he sighs, "So…another day at the labs?"

"Yeah, I have to make sure my folks don't add to the graveyard," he replies, rubbing at his eyes, "Jazz is off at medical school, leaving me with the babysitting."

"Have you seen the factory owner's daughter?" he grins, "Valerie Grey; she's absolutely gorgeous!"

"Good luck, Friar Tuck," he snorts.

"Friar?"

"Because that's how likely you are to get her attention."

"That hurts, man!"

"It's the truth. It'd be like me dating the lovely widow," he smirks, "The former Miss Manson."

"A man can dream, can't he?"

"That's all we can do, isn't it?" he rubs at his neck, "Anyway, I need to get to the factory before my parents blow something up. Can you bring those tools I requested to me there?"

"Yeah, no problem!"

-BREAK-

"So anyway, Daddy's not here right now – he's off organizing the factories in New York," Valerie alights from the carriage, "So it's just–Danny!" she smiles, waving at a dark-haired young man jogging towards the factory. He turns, taking Sam's breath away with a blue-eyed glace. He stops, barely breathing hard, and tips his hat to the two women.

"Morning, Miss Grey," he greets, "And Miss…?"

"Missus Harwood," she replies.

"Ah, yes, excuse me," he fidgets, "my condolences for your husband."

"Thank you."

"Sam, this is Daniel Fenton," Val smiles.

"Danny, please," he chuckles. There's something familiar in his eyes…

"Danny's the son of our head researchers, Jack and Maddie," she turns to the young man, "Daddy mentioned you were back…from where again?"

"I was studying engineering in Germany," he replies, "Jazz is off to medical school, so it's my turn to make sure–" an explosion can be heard in the distance, and the smile falls from his face with a sigh, "that doesn't happen," he turns to Valerie anxiously, "If I may be excused, Miss Grey?"

"Yeah," she waves him off and he begins to sprint. She turns to Sam conspiratorially, "He's not bad-looking, definitely a nice guy. He made my baby cousin a clockwork ballerina music-box for her birthday and shipped it to us on an airship after reading a letter from me, panicking about not having a gift. I mean, his _parents_ are really odd, but Danny and Jazz – Jasmine, his older sister – are normal."

"Excuse me, Miss Grey!" another young man jogs up, his dark dreadlocks pulled into a ponytail. He carries a leather bag over his shoulder. Blue-grey eyes look over brass rims.

"You're Danny's friend, right?"

"Yes, Miss," he smiles, "Tucker Foley. Danny asked me to bring him some tools and supplies; is he at the–" another blast sounds in the distance, "–yes, he is. I was hoping I'd beat him here for once," he sighs, "Anyway, please excuse me," he doffs his cap and jogs away.

"He's not hard on the eyes either," Valerie comments, "Don't know him well, though. But he's friends with Danny, so he can't be _awful_."

"You're not picky, are you Val?" Sam smiles.

"Hey, I can admire finely crafted men, can't I?"


	3. The Tormentor

**A/N: Yeah, the storyline's pretty fast-paced, but as I said: I'm considering turning this into a really long one-shot someday. We'll see. Anyway: Chapter #3! I know I don't update this NEARLY as often as I update Adrift, but, hey, it exists? I want to do a sketch of Phantom from this fic. Maybe one with Phantom AND Danny, so that you can see what his clothes look like in either form. Danny has a very different personality as Phantom in this fic; he kind-of gets…'In-Character', if you will. As Phantom, he's far more confident and acts like a wealthier man. He's a smooth-talker and very good at dealing with others, but not necessarily…nice. You know he's in charge when he enters a room. Danny himself is very kind, and very responsible. He's more easily flustered and polite to his 'superiors'.**

** Anyway, a big thanks to all who reviewed/faved/followed! I hope you'll continue to enjoy, and remember to check out my other DP stories, "Journey of Secrets" and its sequel "Adrift"! (I promise they're far better written, as I have more of them planned.) Anyway: please continue to read/review/fav/follow!**

Chapter #3: The Tormentor

It's dark in the manor, thunder rumbling in the distance. Only a single candle illuminates the room. Sam finds herself jumping at shadows as she walks by. Every once in a while, she feels as though she can see red eyes glowing in the darkness, but second glances just reveal her own ghostly reflection on the glass.

She pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she ascends the staircase, the candle wavering in her hand.

_You…_

She swallows, picking up her pace. She's imagining things…

_I'll be coming…_

"He got to me more than I thought," she mutters, "I will _not_ let him torment me when he's _dead_!"

_…for you…_

She slams the door to her room, leaning against the heavy oak paneling. She lifts her head, making eye contact with her reflection in the mirror. But she isn't the only one there.

Baron Harwood glares from beside her reflection, his eyes vibrant crimson, and his skin a sickly shade of blue-green. His blond hair is disheveled, falling into his eyes, and his elegant clothing is torn.

The candle drops from her grasp, flickering out as it falls to the carpet. The room falls into darkness, save for the glowing red eyes in the mirror.

_You cannot escape me…_

-BREAK-

Her boots stick in the mud of the street, the rain pelting her black umbrella. It's past midnight, far later than a woman like her to be out and about, but she can't stay in the manor.

Not with _him_ there.

She strolls aimlessly, her mind whirling. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees the burning red orbs in the darkness. Her trembling hands tighten around her umbrella, and her pace quickens.

_…Even now the demon loudly calls,_

_Demanding her crimson blood be spilt…_

_He knew…_she realizes, _he was _warning me_._ She marches on, paying no attention to her surroundings. She just needs to walk. Walk away from that place, from _him_. Tears sting at her eyes, _even after I kill him, I can't escape!_

She stumbles into someone, "I…s-sorry," she apologizes quietly, not lifting her eyes to see who she bumped into. She steps around to continue on.

"Mrs. Harwood?" they question, and she turns her head, the umbrella falling to the street.

Phantom stands in the rain, his cane – topped by a silver skull with glittering green eyes – tucked under his arm and his top hat to his chest. He seems to glow in the darkness, but she decides it's the light from the house he's just exited glowing on the small halo of rain pelting his body.

"You're…Phantom, right?" she questions.

"That's the name I go by," he nods. There's something familiar about him…"Are you alright? A lady of your status shouldn't be out this time of night…"

"I…I'm fine," she brushes a clump of wet hair from her face.

He smirks, unconvinced, "Are you really?"

"Yes!" she frowns, pulling her umbrella from the ground and shaking it out.

"…don't tell me he's already…" she can hear him whisper, more to himself than to her.

She turns to face him, stomping closer and entangling her fist into the lapel of his coat, "How did you know?" she hisses, "How did you know that I…?!"

"The dead are a surprisingly lively bunch," he replies flatly, suddenly out of her grip, though she has no memory of releasing him. Those glowing green eyes stare down at her, "he's a bit louder than others though. Not surprising, given his temper."

"Why…" she swallows, "why didn't you…"

"Turn you in?"

She nods.

"Weren't you listening?" he smirks, "He deserved it. Even if he didn't…" he places his hat on his head, "what proof do I have?"

"…I…I'm seeing things," she whispers. She can't explain why she's telling him this; a complete stranger, "…and hearing things…"

He frowns, his expression becoming pensive, "…perhaps we should get somewhere…drier? This weather can't possibly be good for you. You can tell me then."

"I…I'm not…" she presses her trembling lips together.

"He won't bother you if I'm there. He won't dare," he whispers.

"Why not?" she questions.

Those green eyes glow more vibrantly, and she _knows_ that it's not the reflection from the lighted windows.

"It's simple, really," he smiles, "I'm a lot scarier than he is."

-BREAK-

They approach her dark manor. He's soaked to the bone, and she's not far behind, but he seems unconcerned as they stand before her doorway. She shivers, closing her umbrella – she shouldn't have dropped it in the first place.

"Allow me to help," he places his hand on her arm, and she watches in shock as her body disappears momentarily, the mud and rain falling to the ground. When she fades back into being, she's perfectly dry – and so is he.

"…thank you?"

"You're welcome," he smirks, opening the door for her.

She steps inside, shivering again as she imagines red eyes glowering in the darkness. Phantom, sensing her apprehension, moves into the darkness of the house before her, a faint glow illuminating him. He switches the lights on, and she finally directs him to the parlor.

"Where might the servants be?" he inquires.

"I sent them home for the night," she replies.

"You shouldn't be up here alone," he frowns, "There have been robberies in wealthy neighborhoods nearby."

"I like being alone," she retorts.

"That's not true. You enjoy the company of Ms. Grey, do you not?"

"…and how would you know that?" she narrows her eyes.

He laughs, "You'd be amazed how much I overhear. Regardless, you were telling me you've been seeing and hearing things?"

"Yes," she nods shakily, and she clasps her hands in front of her.

"What did you see?" he asks seriously.

"My h-husband…" she swallows. The clouds have just cleared, and the moon shines through the window, illuminating the mysterious singer sitting on her couch. Despite the grave circumstances, she finds herself admiring him – but there's still a familiarity that bothers her.

"Blue-green skin, red eyes, messy blond hair?" he clarifies.

"Th-that's…exactly…"

"Hmmm…." He leans back, his green eyes swirling, "he's growing stronger more quickly than I anticipated. It must be because of the sheer amount of miasma in this place."

"M-miasma?"

"Yes," he replies, "only ghosts and the occasional medium can see it. It's greenish fog that collects in places full of negative energy. This house is full of it," his nose wrinkles, "A lot of ghosts feed on negative energy, but I, personally, don't like touching the stuff if I can avoid it."

"Negative energy…huh?" she stares down at her feet.

"You are not the only woman he tormented in this place, Mrs. Harwood – no, Miss Manson," he states quietly, "At least three maids have died here. That man was _not_ your husband. No man who treats his lawful wife as he did cannot be called such. It's an insult to those out there who love their wives."

"…were you married, Phantom?" she asks.

"That's a rude question to ask the dead," he smirks, "for future reference. The answer is no. I just have parents who love each other dearly."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude."

"I get offended less easily than others. Don't trouble yourself," he chuckles.

"So..this…miasma," she begins, "It…makes him stronger?"

"Yes," he nods, "usually, places this packed with miasma 'air out' once the cause of misery is gone, but there haven't been people around to stir it up. If miasma is caused by negative energy, then it can be dispelled by…?" he waits for her to answer.

"Positive energy?"

"Correct. It doesn't need to be anything spectacular, but with a shortage of servants – and likely your memories or guilt – it isn't disappearing as I thought it would," he frowns, "a dog. Dogs are good. Most of them are sensitive to spectral visitors and they're nearly a constant source of joy."

"So you're suggesting I get a dog?" she asks dryly.

"Among other things," he smirks.

"Like…?"

"Bring Miss Grey here," he suggests, "other people you like, and who like each other. Hold a garden party. It'll slow down his progression, at least, if you can cut down the miasma here."

"I'm not sure if such a thing is possible," she whispers quietly, hugging herself, "This place…the things that happened here…"

"I know," he whispers. Her eyes whip to meet his, and she sees despair swirling in their depths, "Trust me, I know _everything_ that happened in this place. I can see it – feel it – when I come into contact with the miasma. It's very difficult to avoid here," he reaches across the coffee table and takes her hand in his own. For a moment, she can see a blanket of green mist covering the floor. He lets go, and the vision vanishes.

"I…every morning I wake up and think he's standing there again, glowering down at me," she whispers, "and then I have to look at the bruises in the mirror and…"

"I know…" he whispers again.

"…I'm never going to be truly free of him, am I? I killed him and _he's still ruining my life_."

"I can weaken him again, and then by the time he gets enough energy to appear again, you'll have long since moved on," he smiles gently, removing a white glove and wiping her cheeks with a cold, long-fingered hand.

"He won't show up as long as you're here?"

"If he's smart," he replies, "I assume the other residents of the Infinite Realms have told him how much he wants to avoid angering me."

"So how many ghosts are there?"

"Too many to number."

"And all of them fear you?"

"Most of them."

She stares into his eyes, entrapped in their acid-green depths, "Can…can you stay for the rest of the night?" she whispers, "I can prepare a guest room for you…"

"Would it make you feel better?"

"Yes."

He thinks it over for a moment, "I have to leave early in the morning; probably before you wake, but I will make sure you're safe before I leave…"

"Thank you," she whispers, another tear sliding down her cheek and caressing his thumb, "thank you."


	4. A Mutual Friend

Chapter #4: A Mutual Friend

"Valerie, I think I've fallen in love with a ghost," she states abruptly.

"A…ghost?" she quirks an eyebrow, lowering herself slowly into her chair, "I thought…"

"First I saw my husband's ghost, and then I ran into Phantom on the street–"

"Sweetie, he's just _called_ Phantom. I was just kidding about the whole 'actually a ghost' thing–"

"No, he's an honest ghost," she insists, "And supposedly a _extremely_ powerful one."

"…are you okay, Sam?"

"I had dreams, Val. Wonderful, _awful_ dreams. Is that even remotely okay if I've only met the guy twice?" she downs a large portion of her tea, "No, it shouldn't be."

"Sam…"

"He's beautiful, you know. Snowy-white hair, acid-green eyes…"

"Sam, honey…"

"He isn't standing behind me or anything, is he?"

"No, but a _very_ flustered looking Danny Fenton is," Val takes a slow sip of her own tea as Sam turns, locking eyes with the coal-haired young man.

"Mrs. Harwood, a…mutual friend…suggested I give you something," he whispers, "It's in a crate at your manor."

"What is it?" she whispers back.

"A canine of…ectoplasmic origin," he fidgets, "he said it would eat the miasma and exude positive emotions…two birds with one stone, if you will. He also asked that I remind you about a garden party?"

"You know…?"

"My parents study ghosts, Mrs. Harwood," he smiles abashedly, "in their spare time. Regardless, they've yet to see a real ghost. Jazz and I, on the other hand…" he shrugs, "really, we know more than either of them…but what they don't know can't hurt them, now can it?"

"So...you know how to contact him?"

"Yes," he nods, "So if you need to speak with him, just let me know. He…he's fairly reclusive."

"What if I want _him_ at my garden party?" she presses.

"I'll let him know, and then tell you if he's available or not," he replies, "He's a busy man."

"I'll tell you when I know the details then," she dismisses, "Thank you, Mr. Fenton."

"Danny," he corrects, "You have a nice day, Mrs. Harwood."

"Manson," she corrects softly.

"Well then," for a moment, she thinks she sees green swirl through his eyes, "Have a nice day, Miss Manson."

He vanishes into the crowd with the blink of an eye, as though he hadn't been there at all.

"…I didn't know you two were so…chummy. When did _this_ happen?" Valerie frowns.

"It seems we have a mutual acquaintance. He was just passing on a message," Sam explains, still curious about his sudden disappearance. There had been something…familiar in his voice just before he vanished. She lowers herself slowly back into her chair.

"So…what's this about a garden party?"

"Ah," Sam smiles, "Well, I was thinking that I need to…brighten up the manor a bit. Give myself some…some good memories…" her smile fades, and she stares into the swirling depths of her tea.

"So you want to throw a garden party?"

"A nice evening with you and a few other people I don't hate," Sam nods, "I can spend time working on the garden out back – it'll get me out of the house – and when I'm done, I can show it to you."

"Makes sense. I think something to focus on outside of your house will be healthy."

"Yeah, I think it will too."

-BREAK-

"Woah, dude, I think we need to slow down and repeat that part where _you stayed the night at her house_!"

"I was in the guest room!" Danny hisses back, his eyes darting around to scan for eavesdroppers, "She was just scared he was going to come back. It wasn't anything…romantic. She just wanted a guard-dog."

"Keep telling yourself that," Tucker retorts, "I think she might like you, man."

"She doesn't like _me_," Danny growls, green flickering in his eyes, "She likes _Phantom_, if anything. She's just been through a rough six months, her husband's ghost is back…he just makes her feel safe. The moment everything's okay, he – I – will be a simple acquaintance."

"Danny, you're her knight in shining armor!"

"Just _drop it_, Tuck!"

They stride across the town square, meeting in front of the bulletin board. Danny scans each piece of parchment, before finding one with a skull scrawled in the bottom-left corner. He snatches it away, quickly reading the note.

"The Lefevre patriarch passed away," he explains to Tucker, "Pity. He was an excellent craftsman. I hope his sons have the skill to make the tools I need…"

"So they've requested you?"

"Yeah. Two nights from now," he glances around surreptitiously, and pulls a stamp from his pocket. He stamps the 'DP' symbol on the little paper and pins it back, telling the family he's accepted their request.

"So…you really don't think you have a chance? I think you should risk it," Tucker begins again, "Because I would like to think I have a chance with Valerie Grey."

"And at your funeral I'll sing about a guy who didn't realize he was way out of his league and was killed by an overprotective father. You _do not_ want to mess with Damien Grey."

"It'll make for a good song, at least," he shrugs, "a tragic story of love."

"…those _are_ pretty popular," Danny growls, "Anyway, I need to plan the song a bit, so…" they duck into an alleyway, and, checking that no one else is present, he slows his breathing, concentrating. A few seconds later, a duplicate of himself slides from his body. It transforms into Phantom and vanishes, flying for the Lefevre home. Danny releases a long breath, "Now…off to the factory. I've left my parents alone for _way_ too long this morning."

"Yeah, I need to get back to the store. See you tonight for some work?"

"Yeah. See you then," he nods, jogging out into the crowd.


	5. Danny Fenton

**A/N: Good job, ShadowWarrior85. You reminded me that I need to update this every once in a while too. Hope you, and all of the other followers, enjoy!**

Chapter #5: Danny Fenton

She strokes the soft, furry, green head. The green mastiff puppy leans into her palm, and she scratches behind a floppy ear. Despite the fur, it's cold beneath her hand.

"So what's your name?" she coos, staring into its red eyes. She reaches down to read the collar, "Cujo? You're going to be a good boy, aren't you, Cujo?"

She flips open a little letter she found tucked into the crate.

_Care-wise, Cujo will be easy. He requires no food or water – he can survive on the atmosphere. No house training is required. He's already trained with all basic commands, as he was one of Mr. Grey's guard dogs before his death. He was poisoned by an aspiring burglar. He knows his business, so he can guard your home from _all_ threats, not just the supernatural. _

_I would suggest kenneling him in the day. After all, it would probably be difficult to explain a spectral dog to your servants. Best to keep him out of sight as much as possible. As a warning: he tends to change size. He's a puppy right now, but if he feels threatened, he'll become as large as a horse or anywhere between the two. He'll do what you tell him, though, so no need to worry._

\- _Danny Fenton_

_P.S. I've given him orders to eat Baron Harwood, should he dare show his face._

She smiles, allowing a small laugh to escape her lips. Cujo licks at her fingers, begging for more petting.

"You're going to eat Mr. Harwood, aren't you, boy?" she grins, "Aren't you?"

His tail wags enthusiastically.

"Now…kennel," she orders, "I'll let you back out tonight."

He trots into the kennel without protest, laying down on the soft bed within. She smiles as she pulls an old blanket over the opening, imagining Danny Fenton surrounded by ghostly green puppies.

"It suits him," she comments to herself, "He looks a bit like one. A puppy, I mean. He has that sort of demeanor, though a bit more timid."

Cujo huffs, as though unconvinced.

"You don't think so?"

He remains silent – which she takes as an agreement.

She strides from her room, to the garden out back. Baron Harwood seldom had guests at his home – he preferred to take them to his offices. The flowerbeds are empty, the hedges in disrepair.

"He didn't like plant life much, did he?" Sam huffs.

"Baron Harwood was terribly allergic to most plants," one of the maids comments, "If I may, Milady."

"He couldn't be allergic to _that_ many," She huffs, "Well, this garden is going to change," she pulls on a pair of gloves, making for the gardening shed.

"Lady Harwood, we can hire a gardener–"

"I enjoy gardening," She dismisses, rooting around until she finds the tools she needs, "I was sad to leave behind my garden at home. My roses were blooming spectacularly."

"Yes, milady," she bows, understanding the hidden message.

_Get lost. I can handle this and don't need anyone's help._

Sam turns to survey the garden, shears in hand.

"Well, then…the hedges first."

-BREAK-

"…now that I look at him, Danny looks like he could use a little more sleep," Sam comments, watching the engineer from Valerie's patio. The factory waits down the hill, and Danny can be seen running back and forth between the various groups.

"He's looked like that since…" Valerie trails off, "…since the accident."

"…accident?" Sam frowns, placing her cup on its saucer.

"Yeah," she clears her throat, "It was…six or seven years ago? Danny was…fourteen, I was still thirteen. His parents were creating some 'ghost portal' in their free time. They have part of the lab to themselves in exchange for help with occasional projects. Anyway, Maddie – his mom – was inside the tunnel when they realized it was live. Well, _Danny_ noticed it was live. Maddie couldn't hear him, so he went in to get her. He had to physically _shove_ her from the tunnel. The moment he did, though…" she clenches a trembling hand, "The portal activated, and Danny was caught in the formation. They turned the portal off, but…there was no sign of him. He just…vanished."

"My…" Sam breathes.

"Maddie just…she just broke. She would sit, curled up, by that portal every day. She wouldn't talk. Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't sleep. I didn't like it – she was always really nice, you know? I really looked up to her – I still do. I mean, she's so smart and strong…seeing her like that really had an effect on me."

"So how…?"

"The Lefevres found Danny three _weeks_ later, washed up on the riverbank near the old Waterland House. You know, the place that's rumored to be extremely haunted? He was covered in cuts, burns…he was freezing cold. They thought he was dead until he bolted upright, coughing water from his lungs, and pulled what they said was a knife made of _ice_ from somewhere. He relaxed once he took in his surroundings. He wouldn't let anyone get too close, though. Refused to see a doctor."

"Odd…"

"I know, right? Anyway, when I saw him, Maddie was laying with her head on his bed, sobbing into the blanket – or she was. I think she was asleep at the time, actually. Danny was just sitting there, patting her head, saying 'I'm okay, I'm okay. Everything's fine,' over and over again. I think that's when I realized she'd blamed herself for Danny's _death_. It hadn't even really occurred to me that he could be _dead_, you know? Of course…it was soon after that I started attending finishing school and met you."

"Your fellow rebel," Sam smiles.

"We got into _so_ much trouble!" Valerie giggles.

"Oh my…" Sam laughs, "Don't tell me _he_ was the reason you insisted you'd marry an engineer, not a nobleman!"

"It may have had something to do with it," she blushes, "I had a pretty massive crush on Danny. He was really the only guy I knew my age, you know? He's nice, polite, smart, brave, if maybe a bit reckless…"

"And now…?"

"I'm fine having him as just a friend," she shrugs, "I need someone a little more…stubborn. Fiery…if that makes sense. I was courted by Baron Rushton's son, and he was nice…but I was _bored_. I realized that, while I like Danny, I need someone who…challenges me a little more. _You_, on the other hand, would be _perfect_ with him."

"Oh, really?" Sam raises an eyebrow.

"You need someone kind, someone who can calm you down. I'm not sure if you've noticed, but Danny has a relaxing aura. There's also this sense of mystery, though, and if you try to figure it out, he just gives you this polite, evasive smile and vanishes in the blink of an eye. Mind-games like that just frustrate me, but I'm sure you find it intriguing."

"I thought you needed someone who challenges you?"

"I prefer things more direct," she snorts, "Danny's a _magician_ of conversation. Everyone would try to get him to tell them what happened while he was missing, but they'd find themselves discussing…the way the color of the curtains clashed with the house or something. It's _ridiculous_. By the time they realize how off-topic they are, Danny's gone and they can't press the issue."

"Sounds like Danny," someone laughs. Tucker Foley stands politely in the doorway, a file in his large hand, "I apologize, Miss Grey, Lady Harwood. Danny asked me to file these away in Baron Grey's office, and the servants tell me that I need your express permission to enter."

"Of course," Valerie smiles, "I have a question though, Mr. Foley."

"…Yes, Miss Grey?"

"You're Danny's best friend, are you not?"

"I am."

"Do _you_ know what happened while he was missing?"

The polite smile falls from his face, "It's not my place to tell, Miss Grey."

"He's fine now, isn't he?" she laughs, fluttering her eyes.

"If I may speak frankly, Miss Grey?"

"Of course."

"Danny was _never_ fine after that," he growls, his blue-green eyes sparking angrily, "Unless you can call a man who slept sitting up with some ancient dagger in his hand for six months 'okay.' Someone who would flinch at loud noises, falling into a battle stance at a moment's notice. Someone who couldn't let his friends and family hug him for more than a year."

"I never…" Valerie shakes her head, "I'm sorry, Mr. Foley. My comments were insensitive. Please, forget I asked."

"You didn't know," he acknowledges, his gaze cooling, "You were off at school, if I remember. It's not your fault. You only spoke with Danny through occasional letters after we left for Germany. You couldn't have assessed his mental state from that alone."

"You were in Germany as well?"

"Yes, we apprenticed under the same man. I helped Danny create the ballerina he sent you as a gift to your cousin. Do you remember it?"

"Of course," she smiles, "It was amazing!"

"Danny did the basic design, machined the parts, and created the outer shell. I did the main clockwork assembly. Danny had some basic ideas, but I worked the kinks out. He's better at 'big-picture' things while I work with the small details that make it work."

"He must trust you a lot."

"I would like to think so," Tucker smiles back.


	6. John Lefevre

**A/N: So, in the last chapter, I said it was the Addlesons that found Danny. I've changed this; it was the Lefevres. So there's that edit. Also, I've added a sketch sheet of Danny to my deviantart, as well as a better sketch of Ghost Writer. One of these days, I WILL do traditional artwork of them. I don't like my digital work so much. ****L Anyway, links are on my profile. Enjoy!**

Chapter #6: John Lefevre

"So this is how you do it. How you sing about events you shouldn't know happened," John Lefevre muses, stroking his white beard.

"You can't move on until after your wake, so why not?" Phantom smiles, sitting across from the ghostly patriarch of the Lefevre family. The house is empty, with all other inhabitants out and about, planning the funeral or working.

"I suppose I agree," he nods, leaning forward, "So what kind of stories do you want?"

"Anything you want, whatever had the most impact on you. Anything that taught you something you want your children to remember…" he's vaguely aware of his other half at the factory, moving an assistant – the latest one, they never last long – out of the way as his parents test some sort of firearm.

He's told them to take those types of tests outside.

His other half repeats it.

"Well…" Mr. Lefevre begins, "As for what I want to tell Ben…I never want him to forget his soft heart. That it isn't a weakness. I remember this one time, when he found a little baby bat that had fallen from the eaves of the house. It was soaked to the bone, couldn't quite fly," he laughs, "Ben carried it inside, wrapped it in a towel, and sat with it by the fireplace. He nursed and nursed it, but…it didn't make it. He was devastated, he cried his nine-year-old eyes out. Sabrina teased him about it, but I thought it was a good thing, being able to cry. I don't want him to lose that gentleness."

_"Are you okay?" Worried brown eyes scan his face, "Danny? You need to eat. Please?"_

_"I'm not hungry, Ben," Danny replies, huddled against the wall._

_"I'm not leaving until you eat," he sits stubbornly on the floor, a childish pout on his face that's unfitting for a sixteen-year-old boy._

_"Get lost, Ben. Just leave it on the table. I'll get to it when I'm hungry."_

_"You're thin as a rail, Danny. You've been missing for _three weeks_. You nearly froze to death in that water. Just start with the crackers, and then maybe you'll want the soup…"_

_"I _said_ I'm not hungry!"_

_"…_Please_, Danny. You're…you're like a cousin to me. Our parents have been friends for _years_. Mrs. Fenton's so scared that you're going to waste away that she's in tears," he sniffs, "If you can't eat for yourself…can you eat for us, please?"_

_Blue eyes bore into watering brown, and Danny sighs, "Fine."_

"Yeah," Phantom laughs softly, "That sounds _exactly_ like Ben."

John raises an eyebrow, "You know him?"

"Somewhat. I hear a lot, you see," he replies, "So that's your message for Ben. What about Sabrina or Miles?"

He snorts, "Sabrina needs to stop complaining about becoming an old maid and just stop insisting that she's going to marry some well-to-do Baron of some kind. I love the girl to death, but if she doesn't want to get married, she doesn't have to. If she does, she needs to stop searching so high above her class. There aren't enough nobles to go around. You know who she should end up with? Jackson Millson. He went to medical school through the military. Not a brain surgeon, but he's pretty good to have recently shown up in this little town. Brilliant man, well-enough-off. I'll bet an academic like Sabrina would do well with him. Then again, when does she ever listen to me?"

"Perhaps Ben can invite him to the wake and she can…bump into him," Phantom smiles, scribbling further in his notebook.

"He should," John nods, "She's always been a bit…abrasive, though. I hope he has enough of a spine to deal with her."

"How in the world did she become a teacher?"

"No idea," he laughs, "Now, as for Miles…He has a tendency to forget that he isn't the only member of the family. He needs to rely on his siblings, on his wife and children. I'm worried he'll work himself in the shop too hard because he doesn't want to let me down. He won't. If the shop falls, it falls. If it succeeds, it succeeds. If he decides he wants to shut it down and do something else, he can. He's a little too proud. He needs to remember that a name is just a name."

Phantom nods absently, noting his words on the paper. His other half turns a valve closed on one of his parents' devices before they even turn it on. He can see _that_ disaster from a mile away.

"Then again, you know a lot of this, don't you, Danny?"

"I don't–" he begins to answer, cutting himself off.

John Lefevre smirks at him from across the table, "You don't look _too_ different, once you get past the hair and eye colors," he comments, "It was your comments about Ben that gave you away. Is this why…?" he swallows, "Why you refused to see a doctor when…?"

"Yeah," he allows himself to phase back to Danny, "I'm not…" he struggles, "…I still have a heartbeat, John. It's slow, but it's there."

"I remember the day you went missing," he whispers, "Ben cried, he was so scared. Sabrina wouldn't admit that it shook her up too. Miles was overseas at the time. We all thought Maddie was going to kill herself, so we took up shifts to watch her; the three of us, your dad, and Damien Grey. That was a _long_ three weeks, Danny."

"Tell me about it," Danny hisses, his fingers clenching.

"I figured my kids could use some time to clear their heads, so I took them out in a boat to fish – that's when we saw a pale shape washed up on the shore. We beached the canoe to check it out, and I thought I was going to have a heart attack. Sabrina screamed. She cried when she looked at you, thin as one of our fishing poles, covered in scars and cuts. Ben ran over to you and started trying to find your pulse, trying to get you to breathe – and you nearly cut his throat when you woke up. The look in your eyes…you looked…" he swallows, "…hunted."

Danny remains silent, his fingers fisting around the armrests, which creak in protest.

"I'm not going to ask," John shakes his head, "I'm sorry I reminded you."

"It had an impact on you," Danny replies quietly, "Which is what I asked for," he allows the cold in his chest to rise again, the calm of Phantom blanketing his thoughts.

_You are strong. You are respected. You are _not_ prey._


	7. Baron Harwood

Chapter #7: Baron Harwood

The soft green light of the Infinite Realms pulses around him. He can feel it – _her _misery. He takes a deep breath, trying to pull in as much as possible. It's an endless pool, leaving him limited only by his own appetite.

There is nothing sweeter that a woman's misery. Nothing as fulfilling; most importantly, nothing is so _boundless_.

Just as he revels in the taste, it vanishes.

"How–?!" he flicks his red eyes open, glaring from the mirror into the room. The miasma is gone from his sight. Completely vanished. But how?

The answer appears a few seconds later in the form of a bouncing green puppy, which dances around _her_ feet.

"Do you want to stay in here with me tonight, Cujo?" she smiles – he didn't know she could do that – and proceeds to cover the mirror, facing it to the wall. He greedily snatches the small trace of unease she emits as she does so.

She can't see him anymore. It was easier to frighten her when she could see him.

Curse him.

Curse that _wretched_ Phantom!

-BREAK-

_She sleeps peacefully in her bed, the first night for a while. He touches the glass with his fingertips, willing himself through._

_"You'll stay over there if you know what's good for you," Someone hisses. _He_ phases through the walls, his green eyes glowing in the darkness._

_"She's guilty!" he shouts back, "I can torment her as I wish!"_

_"I disagree," he replies frostily – ice creeps onto the mirror, causing Baron Harwood to recoil. The Phantom phases in through, creating a path of ice at his feet._

_The other ghosts had warned him about 'the halfa.' Even now, he's not sure what that means. Regardless, he knows that the noble, white-haired being before him is acknowledged and revered – a lord among ghosts, perhaps even a king._

_The ice creeps up his legs, trapping him in place. Phantom steps closer, his eyes glowing frosty blue, "She is under my protection, Baron Harwood."_

_"She's _my_ wife! You have _no right_ to interfere!" He shouts, panicking at the ice climbing up his chest, his voice pitched an octave higher than normal._

_"_Please_," Phantom snorts, "I refuse to acknowledge that. She was not your wife, she was your victim. They are _never_ to be one and the same."_

_"Who are you to decide whether my death was rightful or not?!"_

_His hands become encased in ectoplasm as the ice claws up Harwood's throat, "I'm stronger than you," he hisses, standing nearly nose-to-nose with the nobleman, "And on this side, that's all that matters."_

_Baron Harwood loses all conscious after that, slowly collecting the pieces of his ravaged soul. _

-BREAK-

He turns away from the covered mirror with a hiss of displeasure. It'd taken a lot of work to reassemble himself. A week, at least. What's his reward? A _puppy_ is eating _his_ miasma.

"It's not _fair,_" he grumbles, storming to the little shadow in the distance. It's a small town on one of the many rocky outcroppings of the Infinite Realms, with simple homes and minor ghosts.

He strides through the bustling – yet still oddly quiet – market. A hunter – Skulker, he recalls – sells pelts from a stall. His wife, a singer called Ember – rumor has it she was burned for being a witch, enchanting men with a siren's song – is drawing a small crowd.

"Hey, Baron Harwood!" Desiree purrs from the opening of her tent, "I hear you ended up on the wrong side of Phantom," she smiles seductively, her eyes lidded, "I'm amazed you're back together so quickly. He must have just been giving you a warning."

He wrinkles his nose at the thought. He'd been frozen solid and summarily blasted into tiny shards of frozen ectoplasm. A _warning_?

"Phantom's such a bad boy," she chuckles, brushing back a strand of black hair, "Too bad he's a prude. I think I'd wish for _that_. So much power for someone so young…" she shakes her head and vanishes into the quilted depths of her tent.

"You're lucky," Skulker adds quietly.

"What makes you say that?" Harwood hisses, his red eyes flashing angrily.

"Because Phantom could _kill_ you," someone else hisses from the crowd, which has fallen completely silent, "For _good_."

"You can't kill what's already dead!" he retorts.

"…he has before."


	8. Tucker Foley

**A/N: Yayz for an update! Praise me, mortals, for it inspires me to write more! Muahahahahahaaaa! *Cough* I'm sorry…you didn't hear that. Except for that last part. Reviews are important. A lot of time, your feedback affects my choices – sometimes I'm torn between two storylines that I really like, and it's YOUR feedback that ensures you're getting the story we'll all enjoy better. Not only that, but if it takes me more than…what, a week and a half or so…to update, post another review and remind me to get my butt in gear. I'm going to try and increase my update speed – especially because I have a lot of free time this week. Not sure about next week yet, but I have lots of it this week. Yay!**

Chapter #8: Tucker Foley

"Tucker, can you help me adjust the sign out front? Stupid wind blew it off again, and I'm not as spry as I used to be," his father grins, "Old men like me shouldn't be climbing ladders."

Tucker snorts, "You just don't want me in your office."

"You rearrange _everything_!"

"That's because you're a slob. How can you _think_ in here?!" He jogs a stack of papers, leaving them reluctantly on a corner of the desk to stroll out to the shop-front.

"I know where everything is," Mr. Foley defends, holding the ladder steady.

"Including Mr. Temple's order form?"

His father doesn't respond, instead biting the inside of his cheek.

"I thought so," Tucker frowns, scaling the ladder to reattach the unhooked side, returning the sign to level, "I'm going to organize your office whether you like it or not. If you can't deal with that, maybe Danny can get me into the Grey Laboratories full-time."

"We can't run the store by ourselves, Tuck."

"Exactly."

"…You're just like your mother," he laughs and sighs.

"Funny, she said I was just like you," he replies dryly, falling the last two rungs to the dirt, "Speaking of the labs, I need to get over there by four, which means I have…" he clicks open his pocket-watch – a gift from his master before he left Germany, part of a matching set with Danny, "…two hours to organize that pigsty you call an office."

He smirks, reading the inscription on the inside of the case, _To Tucker Foley; may you teach your fellow Americans the meaning of punctuality one precise, German second at a time. You have a gift – do not neglect it or your studies._

Another inscription is carved around the face, in etching so small it's difficult to read unless you look at it beneath a microscope – like Master Lancer had known he would; _Please keep watching over young Daniel, and continue to pray that he does not get himself killed._

"Every day, old man," he sighs, closing it properly to avoid damaging the catch.

Master Lancer is the only person – the only _living_ person – who had been told about Danny's…three weeks _away_. He's a strict teacher – because he cares. Everything was easier once he knew – Danny could relax…well, as much as he could _at the time_. He'd been sad to see the two boys go, and gave them the watches as a farewell gift, each with a message.

"I wonder if Danny got a secret one like I did," he whispers quietly as he organizes the sheaves of papers – _there_ is where Mr. Temple's order form got to!

He begins sorting the papers into stacks, one for supplies, one for custom builds – he'll need to consult with Danny on those, especially with Mr. Lefevre's passing.

He yawns, his thoughts dwelling idly on Valerie Grey, the beautiful, curvy young woman with sharp green eyes and surrounded by rumors of a sharp tongue. He'd believe them without hesitation. Even when she'd fluttered her dark lashes coyly, he'd seen the determined fire within those green depths.

She'd learn that Tucker Foley is not one to be fooled. She'd know after she thought she'd played him, only to learn that _she_ was the one played.

"The game is on, Miss Grey."

-BREAK-

"The test is scheduled for eighteen-hundred hours!" Danny shouts over the steam, "Tucker should arrive with the final parts at four, so we need to be ready for them!"

"I doubt he'll be here _right_ at four…" the new assistant mutters quietly.

"He will be," Danny assures, flicking open his pocket-watch, "We spent six years in Germany. He knows how to be punctual," he takes a deep breath to steady himself, reading the inscription inside the casing.

_To Daniel Fenton; may you never forget your dreams, and never stop inventing._

Another is inscribed around the face, _May you never stop being a hero, and never forget that you are not alone, that there are those who pray for your safety._

He smiles softly, calculating somewhere in the back of his head how much longer they have to put in the pieces they need to insert the components Tucker will be bringing later. He suddenly locks his sensitive hearing on his parents' side of the lab, turning immediately to stroll over. It's quiet…too quiet.

"So help me, if you plan on testing that ecto-gun in here," he hisses, one eye twitching, as he swings the door open.

"Danny-O!" Jack Fenton booms, slapping his son heartily on the back, "You need to see this baby in action!"

"I can see it _outside_."

"The elements could interfere with the experiment," Maddie pouts by the table, "It's not harmful to humans…"

"Oh?" he raises an eyebrow, "Have you tested that?"

"On Ronnie, remember?"

He sighs, rubbing his temples. Ronnie was the _last_ assistant they'd had. He hadn't specified why he was quitting, but Danny's beginning to think he knows _why_.

"There are regulations on human experimentation…" he groans, falling into a chair, "I hope he doesn't go to the Science Federation with that…"

"Federation Schmederation!" Jack laughs, earning an exasperated glare from his son.

"Take the tests _outside_, and _away_ from people. We don't know what prolonged exposure could do. You wear the hazmat suits for a reason, right? Just…keep it away from people and waterways," he sighs, exiting their office and surveying the factory once again. Assured that it's moving along as smoothly as it can, he jogs to the stairs, dropping to the basement room that Baron Grey has graciously allowed him to live in. It has a back door that leads to the surface, near the smaller home his parents live in – sleep in, rather. 'Living' seems a bit of a stretch for their little cabin – maybe 'hut' would be more suitable.

A small black dog with red ears bounds from its crate, and he scratches it under the chin before he flops to his couch. It pounces onto his stomach, driving the air from his lungs, and curls there.

"You're not as well-behaved as your brother, are you, Annwyn?" he pants, "He'd at least have the good grace to look sorry," regardless, he pats her head and begins to scratch absently behind her ear.

He hasn't been without a spectral hound since _the accident_. Nor has he been without the dagger strapped inside his boot. Its presence brings comfort as much as it brings pain. It scares him that he can't let it go.

He shouldn't have something made of Ectoranium anywhere _near_ him. But how could he toss aside his closest companion of that that three-week horror-fest?

"I wonder if Cujo's behaving himself," he muses aloud.

She snorts.

"Yeah, I'm sure he's fine. He's better than _you,_ anyway."

She opens one eye accusatorily.

"I don't play favorites," he defends weakly, but she keeps staring, "Okay, I have a soft spot for him," he relents.

She closes her eye with a huff, and he'd almost swear she's smirking.

"I forgot how much of a brat you are," he frowns.

Her tail flicks.

"But you're better at your job, I know," he admits in exasperation, "Of the Hellhounds I have, you're the strongest – I know. Don't ever doubt that."

She sends him a doggy smile, and he shifts, curling on his side and pillowing his head with a crooked arm. She falls into the crook of his legs, and he feels the weight on the couch increase. Opening one eye, she's morphed into a more mid-sized dog, rather than a puppy, and is resting her chin on his thigh.

Danny refers to her as being Cujo's 'sister,' but she isn't _really. _They're entirely different breeds. Cujo is a large, green, stocky mastiff, while Annwyn is a wolf-faced beast with fur that curls like smoke, save for her ears and tail, and a few tufts around her paws, which are burning red flames. Her eyes, however, are a chilling blue.

She's the alpha, and she knows it.

"Cheeky brat," he mutters again.

_"I'm older than you,"_ she huffs.

"Still a cheeky brat."

_"Sometimes, I wonder why I swore my loyalty to you,"_ she prods him with a paw.

"No you don't."

He can sense her ears flick, _"If anyone's cheeky here, it's _you_, Halfling."_

"Perhaps," he smiles goofily, ruffling the fur behind her ears. She falls into silence, her eyes drooping in doggy pleasure.

_"Perhaps we are cheeky together…?"_

"I can support that," he laughs.

Her blue eyes fall from their teasing light, sobering suddenly, _"Please don't leave me behind, Master Phantom."_

"I won't. Remember, Annwyn, even if I'm ahead of you, even if – _somehow_ – I move on…I'll be just ahead, waiting for you. Just as you waited for me all those years ago. I'm not leaving you behind. I'm forging the path for you. You'll just have to take it."

She crawls onto his chest, forcing him to lay on his back, and plants her head over his heart. He scratches absently at her fur, allowing his consciousness to drift.

_"I will. I'll take it as soon as I can ensure the safety of my pack. My loyalty is forever yours."_

**A/N: I need to draw a picture of Annwyn. I like her. Then again, I've always been a dog person. :D**

**Cats are for lonely old villains who pine after married women. *wink***


	9. The Ghost Zone 1

Chapter #9: _Ghost Zone #1_

_His entire body aches, his hands digging into the earth with painful spasms. He struggles to pull another breath into his lungs, feeling as though an elephant stands on his chest. He can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears-_

_-no he can't. Where…? It's deathly silent. Panic pours into his chest, molten fear. He prays, prays desperately to _anyone_ who will listen._

Please, help me! I…I can't…I'm only fourteen!

_Suddenly, the pressure on his chest vanishes with an icy chill, and he greedily inhales a breath, only to cough. He rolls over, tasting copper on his tongue. He slowly opens his eyes, seeing the stony earth beneath him stained with blood. There's something odd about it, but he can't place what it is. He'll deal with it later – he has bigger problems._

_He has no idea where he is._

_The sky writhes with different shades of green, somehow light without any definite source. He can see shadows hovering in the distance._

_"Wasn't I just in the portal?" he whispers, his voice rough and unfamiliar, echoing in the vast expanse surrounding him._

_The fear begins to rise again, but subsides when he hears his heart beating in his ears._

_He's _alive_, at the very least. That's an improvement already._

_The rocky island clearing he sits in is ringed by almost tropical trees, though he's not familiar with a species of coconut palm with _skulls_ instead of coconuts. Dense foliage lies further in._

_He slowly swallows his surroundings with wide, tearful eyes, unaware of what watches from the jungle…_

**A/N: So, yes, it's short, but I couldn't put it with anything else. I probably won't detail EVERY second of Danny's "Three Weeks" (That would be an entire FANFICTION on top of this one!), but important landmarks will be uploaded under "Ghost Zone *Insert Number Here* chapters.**

**Now to answer some reviewer questions!**

**JC: He starts out reading her body language, but she starts speaking later. So…both?**

**Korradelion: Make sure to review them too and let me know what you think!**

**Muney73: …I think this is faster than usual…maybe?...kind of, not really. Sorry. ;P**


	10. A Walk

**A/N: Yeah, a short chapter, but…an important one, I think, in regards to the development of FentonxManson. Also: Another snippet of Danny's time in the GZ!**

Chapter #10: A Walk

Cujo's ears raise slightly, his head turning to the door. His tail wags slowly, causing Sam to glance up from her book. He glances back with expectant eyes.

"You want to go out?" she asks.

He yips in agreement, scrambling off of her lap. He takes the leash by the door in his teeth.

"You want me to come with you?"

He wags his tail rapidly.

She slips on her shoes and wraps a coat around her shoulders. It's dark out, and she knows a route that's likely to be empty. He dances around her feet in excitement as she clips the leash to his collar and leads him outside.

It's not too cold outside, even with the breeze. The small, dirt path she takes to the forest is empty, and she begins to walk the circuitous route around the town.

After half an hour, Cujo freezes in place, his tail slowing to a stop.

"What is it, boy?" she asks.

"M-Miss Manson?" Leaves rustle, and someone steps out from around a corner. A thin, lithe hound made of smoke and fire walks astride him.

Cujo's tail resumes wagging full-force, and he bounds over to the visitor.

"I wasn't aware anyone else knew about this path," Danny Fenton smiles, crouching to pet the little beast, "Then again, Cujo probably showed it to you, didn't he?" he seems to be speaking with the dog more than her.

The black dog he'd been walking trots over gracefully, huffing at the edge of her dress.

"Annwyn," Danny laughs, "Introduce _yourself_ first."

_"Please excuse me,"_ the voice reverberates through the air, and she looks up with ice-blue eyes, _"I am Annwyn, Alpha of Hellhounds. It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Manson,"_ her ears lay against her head, and she bows momentarily.

"It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Annwyn," she nods.

_"Cujo has been behaving with respect, I hope?" _her ear flicks in irritation, _"After all, he _is_ under orders from our master to protect you."_

"He's fine," she smiles.

_"…"_ those burning blue eyes bore into hers for a moment, _"Well, as long as you have no quarrel with his behavior."_

Danny snorts, "_You_ have no right to judge him."

_"I am the alpha. I may act as I wish,"_ she sniffs.

He laughs, his blue eyes shining in Cujo's green glow, and looks up at Sam, "Now you know why I left Cujo," he winks conspiratorially.

Annwyn growls softly and worms her way under Danny's hands, pushing the other canine out of the way. She places her paws on his shoulders and pushes him down, barraging his face with licks.

"Argh! Annwyn!" he yelps.

_"This is what you get for your senseless comments,"_ she huffs, _"Perhaps it will fix your mind?"_

He laughs, "Annwy–" they both freeze in place. Annwyn's eyes lock onto something, and she slowly steps aside, allowing Danny to glide to a crouch, his eyes trained on the same spot. His fingers trace down to his boots, from which he pulls a knife.

It looks like an ancient dagger with a pitch black blade, save for the small, glowing strip of green down the center. Gone is the innocent smile she'd seen as he played with Cujo – who now stands by her feet, the size of a Shetland pony. In its place is a solid mask of steel, with cold eyes set alight by the dagger.

Now she knows why Cujo had seemed so disbelieving when she'd compared Danny Fenton to a puppy.

"Who's there?" he growls.

A few tense moments pass by, and the tension slowly eases from his body.

_"They have left,"_ Annwyn pronounces.

"Follow the scent," he orders, sliding the knife back into his boot, "I want to know who it was."

_"Perhaps I could escort you home first?"_ she suggests.

"I'll be fine. I'll walk Miss Manson and Cujo back to her manor, and then I will return home. Just follow the trail before it cools."

_"Yes, Master,"_ she bows, bounding off into the undergrowth.

He pats Cujo's head absently and takes the mastiff's leash. The smile she's more familiar with eases its way onto his face.

"Perhaps we should be going, if you don't mind?"

A chill worms its way up her spine. One moment, he's sweet Danny Fenton, with tired eyes, a warm smile, and a gentle voice. The next, his eyes turn to ice, his face set in determination, and his voice a cold, furious growl.

No, there's a third face, as well. The teasing, confident smile she's seen the slightest hints of, and a voice as smooth and strong as silk.

_Which one?_ She wonders as they stroll back to the mansion, _which one…is the _real_ Danny?_

-BREAK-

_"Let me _go_!" He shouts, wriggling against his restraints. His eyes track to the armored ghost that carries him._

_"Quiet, Whelp," he laughs, "And accept your place on my wall."_

_"Your…wall?" he whispers weakly._

_"A rare creature such as you? I _must_ have it in my collection!"_

_"_Rare creature_?! I…I'm just your average human–"_ _he stops mid-sentence, his wide eyes locking onto his reflection in a window. It's _his_ face – no doubt about that – but his hair is white as snow, and his eyes are acid green._

_He falls limp, struggling to catch another breath through the fear that tightens his chest._

I have to get out of here…!

_"See, Halfling? You are worth _plenty_."_

I have to…get away…

_A wash of icy power surges down his arms, lighting his hands with unearthly green light, snapping his bonds. He drops to the ground and begins to run as quickly as he can. The ghost – it _is_ a ghost, right? – laughs behind him._

_"That's right, Whelp. Run," he laughs, "You cannot hide from me. I am Skulker, the greatest hunter of the Ghost Zone! Give me my sport! Make me _earn_ your hide!"_


End file.
